


Dust Motes

by whalebone



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebone/pseuds/whalebone
Summary: Midsummer, a year on. Mary waits for Will.
Relationships: Mary Malone & Will Parry
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Dust Motes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



The early afternoon sunlight poured through the tiny kitchen window, dust motes drifting idly in the beams. Mary shuffled a stack of papers into something like a neat pile on the kitchen table, trying to clear some space in her flat's usual chaos.

“A year,” she mused, scooping up a pile of folders and dumping them on a nearby countertop. “Can you believe it?”

“It feels like hardly any time at all,” said Padraig, who was perched on one of the shabby kitchen chairs. “And like it was a hundred years ago at the same time.”

“Exactly.” Mary ran a hand through her hair and glanced at the clock again. 

“It’s only been two minutes since you last checked,” Padraig said. Her dæmon stretched out his wings and shook his feathers. “Don’t fret so.”

“I am doing nothing of the kind,” Mary retorted, though fondly. She had only learned of Padraig’s existence a year ago, had only been able to train herself to see him consistently in the last six months, but already she could not imagine being without him. “I’m just worried.”

“I know. But he’ll be alright. Let him take as much time as he needs. And get the kettle on for when he gets back.”

* * *

Just after three, Mary heard Will locking his bike to the railing outside her little Jericho flat and set about making tea. 

Will came in, his eyes dark and shuttered. Kirjava hewed close to his feet, her tail flicking warily. When Will sat at the table she leapt into his lap, and he curled his hand into his dæmon’s thick fur. The clean scars of his missing fingers gleamed pale.

Mary poured the tea and sat opposite Will, watching him carefully. Worry and love squeezed at her heart in equal measure; she had never especially wanted her own children, but she thought this might be what it was to be a parent. Will had grown so much in the last year, in every possible way, shouldering every burden asked of him, but Mary wished she could take some of them from him. He'd lived with her for those first months, while they'd got things sorted with his mum, and Mary wasn't sure she'd ever stop feeling responsible for him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, when she placed the mug of strong tea in front of him. Tea always helped.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mary asked. Padraig fluttered across the kitchen to perch on her shoulder, and his weight lifted her heart slightly.

Will’s jaw tightened briefly. He looked down, shoulders drawing in. Holding himself close, and quiet. “No.”

“That’s fine.” Mary sipped her tea, scolding the tip of her tongue. She reached across the table and opened the little cardboard box she’d bought at the Covered Market that morning: four small cakes covered in pale marzipan, decorated in jewel-bright flowers. “Help yourself, love.”

She ate her own cake slowly, savouring the marzipan taste, and the memories (Tim’s soft lips on hers; the sea-salt breeze in Lisbon, sand between her toes). Will drank his tea, and stroked Kirjava, and slowly his shoulders loosened.

“I thought I could feel her,” he said quietly. He looked at Mary for the first time, his eyes clear. “I know it’s not possible, but…”

“Why shouldn’t it be possible?” Mary asked, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “She was there, and you were there. I believe that you felt it. Dark matter— Dust— it moves between all the worlds, after all.” An over-simplification, but Will didn't need to hear her scientific jargon right now.

She could picture Lyra so clearly, in the Oxford of her own world, a different sun shining golden on her hair. Perhaps weeping, her storm of emotion taking over. Or perhaps talking determinedly, as though Will could hear her telling the stories of her life. Mary hoped that it was proving to be a good life.

Will nodded slowly. He took one of the cakes and broke off a small piece. “I hope she felt it, too.”

Mary reached out and covered his hand with her own. His palm was larger than hers already. In a few years he’d be tall, strong, and grown. “I am sure she did.”

A small smile flickered across Will’s face, like a ripple on a still lake. The midsummer breeze drifted in from the garden, and the dust motes danced in the sunlight.


End file.
